


Come On Home

by shellfishDimes



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: M/M, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he's there, and he's <i>grinning,</i> and this time, maybe for the first time you've seen him do it, the grin reaches his eyes. He claps a hand on your shoulder and pulls you into a hug, and the sound of gunfire is deafening, but not as loud as your heartbeat. Not as loud as his whisper when he's so close that his lips almost brush your ear.</p><p><i>Well done, son of Mohan,</i> he says, his hair tickling the side of your face.</p><p><i>You've given Kyrat back to her people,</i> he says, and his eyes are warm, and you want to drown in them.</p><p><i>You're home,</i> he says.</p><p>Later, there will be work to do, but for now, there's his hands on your shoulders, and your heart on your sleeve as you smile at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come On Home

_Come on home,_ he says, his gruff voice tender, and you don't hear the rest of it, not properly, because the blood is rushing in your ears and your bones are still thrumming with adrenaline, your head spinning like the blades of Pagan's chopper you watched fly away and didn't shoot, not even when you had a clean shot.

You drive down from the palace, back to where he said they'll be waiting, and you don't even notice the ever-present sounds of gunfire following after you as the car — former Royal Army, now yours, at least for the time being, until it breaks or you leave it for someone else to pick up when they need it — eats the road in front of it. The radio blares out a dance song, and Rabi is still shouting over it.

_We won, you guys! We did it!_

When you stop the car, you're immediately surrounded by Golden Path soldiers, and they all but lift you on their shoulders; at least, the ones who aren't firing their guns in the air, shouting in celebration. Their hands thump your back, and they chant your name — _Ajay! Ajay! Ajay!_ — _your_ name, not your father's name. You hope that shooting at the sky is the only way they'll be using their bullets from now on. (You know it's not.)

And he's there, and he's _grinning,_ and this time, maybe for the first time you've seen him do it, the grin reaches his eyes. He claps a hand on your shoulder and pulls you into a hug, and the sound of gunfire is deafening, but not as loud as your heartbeat. Not as loud as his whisper when he's so close that his lips almost brush your ear.

 _Well done, son of Mohan,_ he says, his hair tickling the side of your face.

 _You've given Kyrat back to her people,_ he says, and his eyes are warm, and you want to drown in them.

 _You're home,_ he says.

Later, there will be work to do, but for now, there's his hands on your shoulders, and your heart on your sleeve as you smile at him.

  


* * *

  


After everything, after the relief and the gunfire and the euphoria have died down, there's the celebration. Someone's brought their uncle's raksi, because there's always someone, poured into old bottles of Russian vodka and jars and thermos flasks. It burns your throat on the way down and leaves you gasping and coughing, but after the first couple of sips, it glides smoothly into your stomach, the way it should. 

Someone else has lit a fire, because this is the north and the nights are colder than Yuma Lau's dead, demon heart, and if it were snowing, the snowflakes would sizzle into nothing above the licking flames. But for the first night in a while, it doesn't snow, and you sit on the cold ground next to him, on his right, always on his right. There's a flute and a drum and songs you don't know in a language that's your own but that you can barely force past your lips, the vowels smooth like pebbles against your teeth. So you sit, and listen, and drink, and watch. 

You've never realised how tense he has always been until you see him relaxed tonight. He's not like a puppet with its strings cut, limp and loose — there's still that stalwart strength in the line of his shoulders that you've always admired, his jaw is still determined and his eyes are sharp, but his fingers gently grasp the neck of his bottle, and you wish it was your neck. His mouth looks soft and relaxed, and you wish it was on yours.

You're sitting so close to each other that your shoulder bumps against his when he shifts his weight, and his knee brushes your thigh when he leans forward to stoke the fire. And you want to lean over, and put your head on his shoulder. You want to kiss the curve of his neck, the corner of his jaw, and then his mouth. But not here, not in public. It's not about shame, because you don't feel any, not when it comes to this warmth that spreads from your chest and through your entire body when you think of him. It's purely a selfish instinct, and maybe it's the raksi as well, but you don't want to share it with anyone, that moment when you finally kiss him. 

So you wait until the party dies down just like the fire, until the moon is touching the distant mountain top above the trees, and most of the raksi has been drunk and all the songs have been sung. He gets up before you do, to stretch his legs or go to sleep before the dawn catches up with him, and you follow, because you always do, and always have.

 _What is it?_ He says when you've caught up with him, almost at the house now, inviting with its promise of a soft, warm bed. He looks tired, but he still smiles at you, so wide that the corners of his eyes crinkle.

And it's the raksi, it's always easier to thank or blame it on the liquid courage because you kiss him then, you finally kiss him, and you grab his elbow and pull him close and behind the house, out of sight of everyone else, because this is _yours,_ this is just for you. He doesn't protest — not that you ever thought he would. Not after the raksi, and the golden statue, and Jalendu, and Durgesh, and _come on home._

He smells like fire and smoke, and snow and sweat, and he tastes like raksi and cheap cigarettes, but you kiss him until he only tastes like himself, and then you kiss him some more until he only tastes like you.

His lips are red and shiny when you break apart, and you can hear quick, gasping breaths that could be yours, that could be his, that could be from the both of you. Your fingers clutch at his jacket, and it's the raksi, you know it is, making your knees weak, making you think like your fingers on the distressed denim are the only thing keeping you standing, and like he's the only thing you can see, his wide pupils in his green eyes and his dark, still parted lips.

 _How long?_ He asks.

You laugh, breathless. _A while,_ you say.

And he kisses you again.


End file.
